He loves me, he loves me not

There was a time when I spent hours amusing myself by plucking petals from daisies or blowing the seeds on a clock flower in an attempt to see whether he loved me or loved me not. I didn’t even need to have a ‘he’ – in fact,  ‘he’ was very often irrelevant. I was simply in love with the idea of being in love. Putting a name to my knight in shining armour too often robbed him of his gleam.

I haven’t seen a field of clock flowers in years and was quite surprised at my viseral reaction to the sight. Perhaps it coincided with my recent mourning for those days when time had a simple elegance about it that amounted to more than it being a tool for producivity. Perhaps it transported me back to those days when I had few responsibilities other than tidying my room and doing my homework (although that latter seemed like quite a chore at the time). Perhaps it played into recent day-dreams of escaping the sights and sounds of the city and living in the country.

I came across this site that deals in dandeloin folklore and amused myself for a while at the thought of modern-day love-lorn technogeeks casting aside their smart phones and reverting instead to nature…

Are you separated from the objective of your love? Carefully pluck one of the feathery heads; charge each of the little feathers composing it with a tender thought; turn towards the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the seed-ball will convey your message faithfully. Do you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you? Blow again; and if there be left upon the stalk a single aigrette, it is a proof you are not forgotten. Similarly, the dandelion is consulted as to whether the lover lives east, west, north, or south and whether he is coming or not.’ 

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